


1991

by Vaecordia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cold War, Dark, Dark!America, Dark!Russia, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11646999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: "If you don't, I will."





	1991

His knees scrape painfully against the floor when he falls, a dull scratch he ignores. His eyes are trained above him, nothing but cold steel ones meeting them. His gun is still trained above him, both his hands trembling as they hold it up, straight between eyes reflecting the endless blue of the sky, a tarnished promise of freedom, distorted hope. The gun at his forehead is cold.  


Alfred stares at him, unflinching, unmoving, and for a moment Ivan blames himself for the look in the unwavering gaze, hidden insanity, the crack in the mind of the superpower - _you left him, you broke his heart, you broke_ _ **him**_ \- and he blinks away the blur in his eyes.

Ivan's arms fall to his sides, the gun clattering against the floor - but his grip around it is still tight, a last lifeline.

“Well?”

Ivan’s voice sounds hollow and it resonates. But the silence is emptier, darker, and it engulfs them again.

“Well?” Ivan asks again.

Alfred hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, and he seems barely breathing. The gun at his forehead twitches ever-so-slightly and Ivan sees how Alfred’s lip thins. An untelling frown comes to his face - it portrays nothing, not confusion or worry or pride, nothing but the plastic mask he’s plastered on. Ivan fleetingly thinks the mask suits him too well.

"What are you playing at?” Ivan asks, irritation rising. There he is, on his knees in front of Alfred - _America, a superpower, a_ _ **God**_ \- the bullet asking to slam into Ivan’s brain. But here he is, waiting.

“What’s gonna happen?” Alfred asks, his voice so flat and so small.

“You’ll have everything you ever wanted,” Ivan responds, and for a moment Alfred seems to imagine it and believe it. His stance straightens, but then he freezes again.

“Sounds nice.”

Ivan is trying to see past Alfred’s defenses, see what is going through the tormented youth’s mind, but the wall he’s built is higher, thicker, stronger than Berlin’s was. He’s hidden himself away from the world.

“Alfred,” Ivan starts, but he doesn’t finish. What is he going to say? _Pull the trigger, Alfred. Kill me. Liberate me. Free yourself. You can be king, unrivaled, unquestioned. Pull the trigger._

Alfred shifts his hold on the gun. His eyes wander over Ivan his defeated stance, the pleading of his eyes. The gun presses deeper into Ivan’s forehead. “I can’t,” he says, his words empty. Ivan knows the gun will leave a mark.

“Alfred, I cannot do this any more. I cannot keep up. It’s your turn.”

Alfred’s breath hitches. “Ivan, I c- I d-” His façade fixes itself before it can break, and his breathing steadies. “Why would I?” Ivan doesn’t seem to understand. “What do I have to gain?”

Ivan doesn’t frown, though he wants to. “What-? Everything, Alfred, the world. The world can finally be yours. All of it. Your playground. Yours.” iIsn’t that what Alfred had wanted?

“What’s the point in that?” It’s as if with every word he speaks, the life drains out of him.

Ivan can’t answer. He doesn’t know how to. Peace? Prosperity? Once Ivan is gone, someone else will take his place, or will try to. “If you don’t, I will.” His hand grips tighter around his gun.

“Like hell you will!” Alfred shouts, but his face is cold as ever. It’s so off, Ivan thinks. “You won’t.”

“Alfred, the new isn’t molded from the old.” Ivan almost wants to laugh, words he has heard used too many times, words he has used too many times. “The new is born from the _death_ of the old.”

Alfred puts his other hand on the gun, aiming straight in between Ivan’s eyes, his eyes emotionless, his arms trembling ever-so-slightly. Ivan decides.

A gentle smile curls his lips, and his eyes soften as he looks at the other. “I’m sorry.” His gun is at his temple, and he pulls the trigger.

The last thing he sees, he notes with grim amusement, is the crack in the steel and the horror that flashes through them.

**Author's Note:**

> This was both purely self-indulgent rusame angst but also an apology piece for having written and posted nothing in ages. I swear I will post more when I'm back home.


End file.
